


Prayer

by pieandangels



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-29
Updated: 2013-04-29
Packaged: 2017-12-09 22:26:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/778676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pieandangels/pseuds/pieandangels





	Prayer

Over the years, Dean forgot a lot. He was bad with history and math - all that academic crap was Sam's thing. Dean was good with demons and weapons. That was what he'd been raised to remember, and he was a good son, a good soldier. Yet there was one thing Dean was very good at that John never taught him; Dean knew how to pray. No matter how many times Castiel abandoned them, Dean never forgot how to pray.

The problem with prayer was that it took a lot more faith than Dean could muster. Most nights he lay awake and stared at the ceiling, worrying about Sam and trying desperately not to wonder where the hell Cas was. But sometimes, on days when Sam was too sick to get out of bed, Dean would sit at his desk, head in his hands, trying to form a prayer. He didn't know if Cas was listening, or even if he wanted to hear anything Dean had to say, and most days Dean gave up. He knew what he wanted to say, but there was no way to word it. There was no way to ask for the things he needed from Castiel.

Dean awoke to the sound of coughing: loud, vicious, throat-ripping. He leapt out of bed and sprinted to the bathroom where he found Sam curled on the floor. He looked out of place with his enormous body shivering on the linoleum, head propped against the porcelain toilet bowl. His lips were blood-stained, and for a moment, Dean had a horribly vivid flashback to Sam's demon blood days. He shook the image from his mind and knelt next to his brother.  
"Sammy, what do you need?" Dean asked.

Sam looked at him, face pale, eyes bloodshot. When he spoke, his voice was shaky: "Nothing. I'm fine. Go back to sleep. I'm okay."

"Okay? Sam, you just puked your guts out. Let me make you soup or something." Dean stood up and took a step toward the door of the bathroom.

"No. I'm feeling better already," Sam said quickly. He pushed himself up, arms shaking. He stood for a moment, then collapsed again, vomiting violently.

"Sammy," Dean choked. There was nothing else to say.

Sam coughed and a thin trickle of blood fell from his lips. "You can't help me, Dean. You don't need to watch. Go back to bed."

Dean shook his head, sitting on the edge of the bathtub, rubbing a hand across his face. "There's got to be something. We can't be the first ones to have tried this, there's got to be some kind of cure."

"This is part of it," Sam said. If he could've, Dean knew he would be yelling. "This is just as much a part of the trials as killing the hellhound. I have to get through this, and you have to let me. Now go."

Dean felt his eyes burning, acid roiling in his stomach, but he didn't fight. He stood and walked mindlessly back to his room, closing the door, trying to escape. He heard Sam started throwing up just before the door clicked shut. Falling back on his pillows, Dean aggressively wiped at his eyes. In his experience, crying was always the least helpful solution. It didn't accomplish anything. It didn't save anyone. It just tired him out. Dean closed his green eyes and tried to sleep, but all he could think of was his brother's sallow skin and bloodstained mouth.

"Cas," Dean began huskily, "I don't know if you're still in commission. I don't know what that Angel Tablet's doing to you, but if you can...I really need you here, man. Sam's getting worse. I know we can't stop it but...you're an angel, Cas, you have to be able to do something. Slow it down at least, until we can find a cure. He's trying to do this alone, Cas, and I can't let him. I can't watch my baby brother die - "

There was a soft flutter of wings, but Dean didn't open his eyes. He always imagined Cas answering his prayers, but it never really happened.

"Hello, Dean," said a gruff voice. 

Dean kept his eyes closed for another moment, fear curdling in the pit of his stomach. Cas wasn't really there. He knew it. He was going to open his eyes to an empty room and an unanswered plea, just like always. He was going to walk back to the bathroom to find Sam passed out, and there was nothing he could do. He couldn't save his brother. He couldn't find his angel. Reluctantly, Dean opened his eyes.

Castiel sat on the foot of his bed, backwards tie and all. Dean tried to speak, but his voice was caught in his throat.

"I have told you I cannot help Sam," Cas said.

Dean looked down at his lap. "I know."

"Yet you prayed."

"And you came."

Castiel didn't answer. He moved closer to Dean, chapped lips pulled tightly together, blue eyes shining. He climbed further onto the bed and sat beside Dean, folding his arms across his chest.

"I wish this wasn't happening," Dean said quietly.

"As do I," Cas answered.

They sat in silence for awhile, and then Dean cracked. It was nearly audible, the sound of his will breaking. He had been so strong for so long, but he only managed it because there was always a chance. No matter how slim, he and Sam had always made it out. Even death didn't seem to matter. They always came back. But not this time. This time Sammy was going to sacrifice himself, and it would be the end. No one could reach into Hell and rescue him, because Hell would be closed off forever. Dean thought about it every time Sam coughed. Every breath could be his last, and there was no way to save him.

Pointless though they were, Dean let tears leak from his eyes. He had a brief flash of the drugged out version of Castiel he had seen when Zachariah zapped him into the future. He knew now what that Castiel had meant. He felt hapless, hopeless. He wanted to go out in a blaze of glory, his brother at his side. But they had to make it that far.

Dean felt a rough, familiar hand on his cheek. Cas swiped his thumb over the thin, soft skin beneath Dean's eyes, removing the tears. Dean couldn't think clearly. All he knew was that he couldn't keep doing this alone. He couldn't make it without some kind of support. He fell forward against the angel, burying his face in the dirty, threadbare dress shirt Castiel had worn for four years. He sobbed, trying to form a coherent thought, trying to tell Castiel he needed help, but he couldn't speak. He could only cry. Castiel's arms closed around him.

"Dean," Cas said.

Dean looked up at him, shame coloring his cheeks pink. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

"Do not apologize. I would like to tell you something. I have heard that timing is important, and I have been waiting for many weeks."

"You have to leave, don't you?" Dean asked. "Go. Figure out what's up with the Angel Tablet. Don't worry about us, I'll - "

"I need you, too," Cas interrupted. 

"What?" Dean asked, startled.

"You have told me you need me many times, and I have not said it back. But I am not leaving, Dean, because I also need you. Although I cannot save Sam, I believe I can help him rest."

Dean stared at the angel, eyes wide. He nodded, feeling some of the unbearable pressure lift off his chest. Castiel stood and Dean followed him down the hallway into the bathroom. Just as he thought, Sam was curled in on himself, shivering, staring at the wall with blank eyes. It was worse than when Lucifer was inside his head. Dean crouched by his brother, putting a hand to his forehead. It scalded his palm. 

"He's dying," Dean managed. Castiel nodded and grabbed Sam's hand between his own. His eyes narrowed as he focused, and Dean saw a pale line of energy radiating through Sam. The younger Winchester relaxed, his shivering stopped, and Dean could feel the heat waves cooling.

"I broke his fever, but it will not last. We should put him somewhere more comfortable." Castiel scooped Sam up in his arms and carried him across the bunker to his room. He placed Sam on the bed and Dean tucked the sheets around him.

"I used to make him soup when he had the flu," Dean said. Cas threaded his fingers between Dean's.

"This is much worse than the flu."

"I know."

Dean touched Sam's forehead one more time, then walked back to his bedroom, Castiel trailing behind him. They climbed back onto the bed and Cas pulled Dean against him again. Dean didn't want to think about the implications of sleeping in Cas's arms. All he knew was that it was his own private heaven, a little spot of brightness inside this hell he'd been trapped in since Sam saved Bobby.

"He's going to die," Dean said.

"Yes," Cas agreed.

"We just have to make sure he finishes the trials first."

"Yes," Cas repeated.

"Then that's what we'll do. We'll save the world, and Sam will die." And I'll follow him, Dean thought.

"I'm sorry," Cas whispered. Dean felt lips touch his hair.

"Thank you for coming, Cas."

"I always come when you call, Dean. You may not always see me, but I always come."

Dean didn't respond. He pressed his body closer against the angel's and, after several long minutes, managed to fall into the deepest sleep he'd had in months, protected by the strong, sacred arms around him.


End file.
